Instruments
by Shinichi06
Summary: Three instruments they came into contact with, and two they played for each other.


FF – Sherlock

Instruments

Warnings : N/A

Characters : Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson, mentions of others

Summary : Three instruments they came into contact with, and two they played for each other.  
>AN : Writing this while listening to Yoshida Brothers gives it a very Phoenix Wright feel. Also only the 'Piano' section involves an actual crime scene, so don't get too excited. It was my first hand at writing mystery actually.

**Piano**

The clean white walls of the room put John off. It reminded him of a rather morbid, twisted hospital, with the way the blood splattered on it. The thought that he was able to tolerate kneeling beside the decapitated corpse and study the inflicted wounds on it without throwing up both disturbed and mollified him.

Sherlock was prodding around the room, with Lestrade following behind, insisting vehemently that he 'put on some gloves or everyone would have to be facing an inquiry at his expense'. John shook his head in pity for the poor Detective Inspector. There was no distracting Sherlock once he was on a roll.

He brushed the wound on the chest, studying its colour cautiously before standing up, Sherlock bounding excitedly up to him.

"Your professional examination, John?"

"Cause of death was the severing of the neck. A single, clean cut to it," he pointed at the dark, stained body, "made by something exceptionally sharp. The dark, thick strip behind the waist is one huge bruise, suggesting a forceful front-ward pull of the body that had taken place before the death, but only moments before. Blood content indicates a presence of general anaesthesia applied orally."

"Exactly." Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "The murderer had the victim tied firmly in a rope, pulled by a turning motor in the opposite room. The victim's neck," He made a show of tying an imaginary string around his own, "Was resting on a piano string that was bound to the two trees outside this room." He pushed the window open and waved his hand at the two oaks outside. Lestrade peered closely and noticed recent, horizontal grooves in the bark. "When the deed was done, the murderer could coil up all the rope and strings and hide it in her purse." He breathed triumphantly.

Lestrade spluttered. "That means to say, that Ms Leslie committed this singlehandedly?" He blinked at the corpse, which, although lying motionless on the ground, proved to be vaguely intimidating with its well-built muscles, before his mind finally understood. "That's where the anaesthesia comes in, isn't it? Ms Leslie fed it to him in the wine she offered when she invited herself in."

"Not exactly." Sherlock sounded vaguely pleased. "It was the cheese, you see, the victim's refrigerator stocks plenty of it, cheese-lover, obviously, and he would be hard-pressed to resist good cheese."

"But the murder weapon! Piano strings? How?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "The deciding blow was the cut on the neck, wasn't it? A cut as clean as that indicates that the weapon was very sharp, as concluded by John, but it would have to be something easy to hide. The piano here," Sherlock crossed the room tapped the piano lid, "has three strings that are untouched by rust, and the keys are still covered in dust. So, strings had been replaced, but no one has played the piano, showing that someone, namely the murderer, has used it for something that does not involve music playing."

Seemingly satisfied with the explanation, Lestrade barked orders for the arrest of Ms Leslie immediately, and Sherlock trotted out of the crime scene, pushing John gently.

"You seem exceptionally happy today." John quipped as he pulled off the blue cleanroom suit.

Sherlock smiled. "I just hate the piano, that's all."

**Shamisen**

He caught the whiff of a faint, foreign perfume between gasps for air. Small, pink petals fell from the tree branch and he watched as Sherlock glance around in frustration. He leaned against the fence of the bridge, watching the river below them flow as he caught his breath. There was something beautifully serene about Tokyo, as they stood in the heart of one of its many parks.

Sherlock complained loudly about them losing sight of their target, while Japanese onlookers watched in interest. He heard the soft plucking of strings in the distance, and walked towards it, oddly captivated.

"... and how did he- John? John?" Sherlock stared after him and followed closely behind.

An old man sat on a stool at the end of the bridge, a lute of sorts in his hands, and he plucked and strummed the strings with an odd, large triangle like pick. John watched in interest, the wondrous melody complimented by the splendid scenery that was doused in shades of pink and autumn.

Sherlock shrugged to himself and sat down on a nearby bench. They rather did deserve a quick break.

**Organ**

John stared up at the concert hall in mild interest. The red curtains that adorned the sides of the stage and the balconies drooped heavily. The glassy chandelier that hung from the ceiling seemed to quaver precociously, casting gentle hues of gold on the audience below it.

A lady dressed in thick, expensive furs bumped into him from behind. He jumped slightly and apologised politely, and only out of courtesy, because really, what kind of a person would walk into something in front of them? The lady, however, peered at him with vague disdain as she surveyed his dressing and sniffed haughtily, before brushing her sleeve and sauntering away.

He shifted slightly as Sherlock ushered him into one of the rows as they took their seats. Somehow, he was beginning to feel slightly out of place.

Sherlock leaned over and whispered smugly into his ear. "If you feel uncomfortable, it's your own fault for refusing my offer to lend you my jackets."

John harrumphed and placed his hand on Sherlock's face, pushing him away gently. "You know full well we wear different sizes."

"Either you have to lose weight, or I have to gain more then." Sherlock commented. "But definitely you."

"No, you." John laughed lightly, "You never did explain why we're here."

"Case." Sherlock said simply, and they reclined comfortably into their seats just as the lights dimmed, along with the background whispers. The curtains of the stage were pulled apart, and the musician strut into view. John blinked. He recognised that walk full well, and he squinted slightly, drawing himself for a closer look.

"Sherlock, isn't that your brother?" He murmured softly under the loud applause. Sherlock sat with his arms crossed defiantly, as if one less person clapping would mean immense damage to Mycroft's pride.

Sherlock huffed in response as he watched his brother sit down before the organ, and begin playing extensive reproductions of Bach and Cabezón. John gapped in admiration.

"He's _good_."

Sherlock stared at John for a few moments, before hauling him up dragging him away. "Time to check the backstage for clues! Come on, we haven't got all day." He muttered darkly under his breath that he could do so much better, but John caught that anyway.

_**Violin**_

Sherlock glanced up from his book when he heard the front door shut with too much force and the stomping of the stairs. The footsteps paused outside their living room, and Sherlock anticipated John entering, but they continued and faded away, John heading into his own bedroom, the slam of the door resonating.

Quite obviously, John was angry about something.

Sherlock considered sitting still and waiting for the rage to subside, until he heard the consistent, angry thumps on the wall.

John was angry enough to be punching the wall.

He shut his book and tossed it on the table, heading into the kitchen and set to make a cup of tea. Not as good as how John could make it, he thought, but John probably couldn't taste the difference. Retrieving his violin case from the shelf, he held the mug in his hand and the case in the other, stepping up the stairs cautiously and softly.

He set the cup of tea before the door, and pulled out his violin, launching immediately into Vivaldi's tunes. The sound of the wall abuse began to slow to a halt, and Sherlock started to play Handel's Sarabande. He continued, gently and slowly, until the tea had chilled and John emerged from his room.

Sherlock pointed his bow at the cup. "Your fault it turned cold." He smiled pleasantly.

John stared, from Sherlock to the cup of tea, then picked it up, sipping the bittersweet liquid. It tasted a little odd, aside from being cool, but he appreciated it all the same.

"Thanks."

_**Clarinet**_

John sat on his bed, studying the clarinet that laid in its case. Piecing it together, he felt odd pangs of nostalgia and he placed it to his mouth. His fingers fumbled around the holes of the instrument clumsily from lack of practise, but at least Sherlock wasn't home to mock him.

He couldn't remember the music scores from his school days, but settled on playing a sort of rendition of Stravinsky that mingled tones of Strauss. So engrossed in his mess of music, he missed the footsteps that threaded up the stairs.

Sherlock watched from the doorway, vaguely impressed. He considers getting a book of duets for the both of them.


End file.
